


The Military's Always Got A Plan, Right?

by nikirik



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-26 14:59:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikirik/pseuds/nikirik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, and with John Watson's new flatmate it's not only about violin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [У военных всегда есть план, не так ли?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/647169) by [nikirik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikirik/pseuds/nikirik). 



"How do you feel about the violin? I play the violin when I'm thinking. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," the voice of Sherlock Holmes was even, as if it would've been drawn on the graph paper. It echoed back from the hospital walls perfectly.  
"Well, if it's the worst," Watson drawled in confusion. This strange lanky fellow made him giddy.  
"Sometimes I don't talk for days on end," the man added. And then with a slight tilt of the head and a twitch of the mouth, " and I'm totally not interested in sex, thank you very much."  
While the doctor let his jaw drop to the floor, his new acquaintance winked at him repeating his name and address and vanished.

"What the hell?" finally managed John.

"He's always like that," grinned Stamford.

  
John was a military man, so he decided to ignore the unnecessary Intel as immaterial. The flat seemed nice, the housekeeper was a sweet lady, always ready to fetch some tea and cookies, which was a lovely change from his barracks' and hospital experience. The rental fee was lower than he expected, so Watson resolved to be blind to some certain extravaganza of his new neighbour. At least he had his own bedroom to have some privacy and his blog to nag.  
And didn't he get plenty of reasons to?  
To begin with Sherlock Holmes was untidy as on principle, every effort to appeal to his conscience or cleanliness failed, as he was twitching his mouth in contempt, explaining himself in polysyllable words, most of them, John was sure, were not even from the English vocabulary. And he only had to replace his bathrobe with a purple shirt to become the epitome of style, so nobody would've ever thought that this pig had ruined the kitchen table with his dangerous experiments and the living room with the bullet traces during his so called 'boredom attacks'. And he kept a human head in the fridge - the goddamn human head! John was considering getting a separate one, ‘cause obviously his neighbour didn't need food.  
Sherlock was incredible and intolerable. He was like some sort of puzzle, his very own existence caused some major inferiority complex, which reminded John heavily of his school years, him not being accepted to the rugby team. Too short, they said. Was it worth it to graduate from school, then from the uni, become a doctor, serve in Afghanistan, only to feel tiny again.  
Maybe his shrink would've laughed if she'd known his PTSD being transformed into an inferiority complex. He wasn't sure, which was worse. Before he wasn't satisfied with the world around him, and now he wasn't satisfied with himself.  
John couldn't understand why Sherlock kept dragging him to the crime scenes, the only reason'd be that he absolutely hated the presence of people like Anderson and Donovan. But he, Watson, couldn't manage beyond 'There's a woman lying dead' and Sherlock's reply came with deserved sarcasm: "Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

It looked like some poorly disguised humiliation.

Watson never usually hesitated to take measures against those who tried to take a piss on him. He didn't studied anatomy for nothing and was famous in the regiment for his right hook to the liver. But he couldn't beat the shite out of Sherlock, could he?  
John mused bitterly on the prospect of such a smartarse showing up at the barracks and not getting a swirly within an hour. Watson never approved of such methods but this presumptuous bastard needed a good old birching.

Of course he wouldn't fall so low as to pour some effective laxative in his tea (and the idea lacked originality, truth to be told).

While his mind was struggling to come with some elaborate revenge scheme John was drearily observing the pale profile of the sleuth who was slouching over his laptop. The bastard had the brains and the looks. Watson (snub nose, wrinkles and narrow mouth) felt aversion arousing. Lanky but that's in fashion nowadays. Skin and bones, waking some mother-hen instinct John never knew he had in him. Someone should feed him... Although the last time they were at the restaurant it was a dreadful experience...

Watson pulled a face at the memory.

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

"So you've got a boyfriend, then."

"No."

"Right. OK. You're unattached. Like me."

"John, um... I think you should know I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered, I'm really not looking for  
any..."

It was so much worse than to stand at the dead body not being able to utter a word.

The only idea of him being attracted to Sherlock was making a big hole in his self-rating. He didn't want to be a tool, a guinea pig, a servant, bringing the food and cleaning up. He was so angry at Sherlock, he almost regretted not taking his brother's bribe. Could've have shifted the money. Well. Damn ethics.

  
Sherlock disappeared without a word midst of the intricate case. John couldn't tell that brought him to track his mobile, when his neighbour ran off "to get some fresh air". Why did he followed, maybe it was military intuition, but he came at the right place at the right time. And looking at Sherlock, who was ready to take some dangerous pill just to satisfy his stupid ambitions, how could he guessed it was a trap and make a shoot at the last second?

But he did kill, his hands never shaken at all, sending bullet through windows straight into stranger's body.

He was placid, when Sherlock wrapped in the orange blanket came near.

"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers," oh, but of course he deduced.

But John never fretted when he knew exactly what he was doing and why.

He should've kept this man going.

Maybe (just maybe) it was the recognition of that man's superiority.

But John didn't take it as an offence.

Unwittingly Sherlock came from introducing John as "He's with me" to "It's my friend". Once John corrected him, claiming to be a colleague only to get a confused glance from Sherlock, who seemed almost hurt, as if it was even possible.

But the bounds of what was possible became very unclear at the moment.

To be his friend was a reward of such importance, of which was no medal John ever have got at the war.

He was sure he would never be a priority object of affection for Sherlock, so when his colleague from the hospital, Sarah, agreed to a date, he decided not to tempt fate. John Watson, the King of Compromise.

But the insufferable Sherlock meddled in once again. He and his definition of the word "date" ("It's when two people who like each other go out and have fun..." - "That's what I was suggesting.").

His heart nearly skipped a beat, as it never did for Sarah, as he thought that maybe Sherlock wanted to go on a date with him. Anticipation and fear, exultation and shame, when Sherlock showed up at the theatre. John was too happy to hate himself. As if it proved anything except Sherlock's infatuation with the new case.

John stayed at Sarah's couch again and again, delaying the inevitable for no solid reason.

And then he got mad at Sherlock, who was firing at walls and mocking his blog. John knew too well, it was boredom talking, but offence prevailed, so he just stormed out. And later he learnt about the explosion.

Now he knew precisely how does it feel then the heart stops.

All insults (imaginable and not) vanished at the moment he saw the ruined walls of their house at Baker-Street.

And he would hug the bastard who played his violin as if nothing happened if it were not for Mycroft.

And then John got caught.

Two thugs stuck him into the cab, wrapped him with explosives, stuck him a pager in the hand and brought him some place, where he never expected himself to be.

"Bet you never saw this coming," had to say John dictated by the bomber. And it would've hurt less to be blown up right at the spot than to see that pained gaze, this insecurity, this vulnerability.

  
It shouldn’t be him, decided John, looking into silvery eyes. One bad guy and one boring soldier to die, not a big loss anyhow. He thought vaguely about his sister, but decision was already made.

It was only then Sherlock hadn't moved, didn't take the opportunity (of his self-sacrifice) to run and instead rushed to him to dismantle the bomb, stammering: "That, ah — thing that you did. That you, um, you offered to do. That was, um... good." It's only then John allowed himself to think: Doesn't matter that he is not interested in sex. He is the one I love. And he will be mine.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, all mistakes are mine.

John was not a strategist, but he was the part of the invasion of Afghanistan, that, as it seemed, should've given him some sort of advantage over civilians. Although when it came to Sherlock Holmes, he didn't dare to describe him with this standard definition ("civilians should survive", "civilians should not know", etc.). Watson imagined them as a flock of sheep on the green lawn, surrounded by Apocalypse, but totally oblivious to the fact that they were effectively protected from the traumatizing reality. Sherlock in no case did fall under the definition of "quiet sheep." For a while John was seriously considering the possibility of attaching him to the group of " _undecided, but possible world rulers_ ," but then it occured to him that maybe he watched too much of **"The Big Bang Theory"** lately.

However, the doctor was convinced that force would not bring the expected result. The international practice proved him right. How to approach the genius John couldn't work out for the life of him.

Once he was almost inclined to use hypnosis or, if needs must, NLP. On the other hand, every single person around them was trying (permanently and unsuccessfully) to plant the idea of the possible existence of a pair John/Sherlock into the head of the latter. To no avail.

Sherlock continued to enjoy absolute impunity and asexuality. John ached to punish him. At least for the mold in sandwiches. The doctor did not rule out that the impact of the whip on the seat of the consulting detective would only benefit both parties, he had read something about that ... Well, Googling.

Unfortunately, insurmountable obstacles emerged on the way to a happy-ending in the form of:

1) the perfect combination of looks and intelligence in the above mentioned object, and

2) the lack of confidence in John's own attractiveness, intelligence and opportunities to engage in homosexual relationship due to the fact that he usually fucked up every relationship as a rule...

John was literally sick with love.

So much that it was noticed not only by good-hearted Mrs. Hudson and Sarah (who was still hoping for something), but also by the obscure object of desire aka Sherlock.

" **Miss your buns. SH** "

John's hand, which was holding a stick in the throat of the patient (examination for tonsillitis), trembled in this very throat, like a pencil in a jar, the other almost dropped the cell phone.

 _You are only interested in my handmade buns_ , bitterly thought the doctor writing a prescription to the victim of his intemperance. _No love, no buns. Would you even notice, that I'm not bringing your slippers in my teeth anymore?_

John took the phone and sent a message to Lestrade.

He responded surprisingly quickly.

John muttered "Bazzinga" under his breath, took off his white smock and left the office.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, all mistakes are mine)

 

Meanwhile, in a land far-far away... that is, in Baker Street the perfect brain of the century was rusting from idleness.

If Sherlock would ever bother himself with the philological researches, it would possibly lead to a change in his usage of his favourite "bored" (it may or may not be extended to "bored without"). Recently, some alternations emerged after the preposition.

Sherlock's brain couldn't stand the binary system. Maybe that's why he hated division since the grade school. 

And don't even start with the mitosis. It just awakened the brutest sociopathic instincts in him.

Whenever Sherlock faced something OUTSIDE his brain, he was expecting only two options: 1) either he met an outstanding and opposing mind which he should effectively destroy, if possible, or 2) he met some NOT prominent and submissive brain. Then he got bored.

The incident in the pool did not fit within Sherlock's scope. He did not expect (and everything that was not predetermined by the course of deduction was unconscionable violation of the rules of the game), that he would see this face in front of him uttering these words. For some disgustingly prolonged nanosecond he almost believed it. That he was betrayed by the most unsuitable man. Whom he called his friend voluntarily. The assumption was incredible, but as Sherlock once claimed , when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. He was displeased by the fact that this truth was not to his liking, and he had NEVER evaluated the truth in terms of the of personal preference.

But Sherlock only just jumped on the carousel at the amusement park of Moriarty.

At the time, Sherlock regretted, as never ever in his life, that his brain was working at a speed that allowed him for a tiny moment to imagine what it is like to be betrayed by John. And then, not even making out the protruding wires from under the parka, he realized with amazing clarity (which usually came after the second nicotine patch) his mistake and was GLAD about that.

Truly, life never ceased to amaze him. Life with John, at least.

At that moment he realized that the life of his blogger can end at any moment, and he was TERRIFIED. Sherlock loathed the helplessness. He could pull the trigger as soon as this pretentious guy in customized (by his tailor!) suit stepped into the light, he could try to escape when John in a vain attempt gripped the throat of Moriarty... He did nothing. It was bad, very bad. And it was good.

As if suddenly the binary system was working.

As if for the properly function his universe suddenly needed someone who was standing in front of him. Not the one in a suit with the plebeian manners, with whom he was so obsessed these days, but THE OTHER ONE, the ordinary man (in the habitual frame of axis), John Watson, M.D.

The world was definitely going crazy.


	4. Chapter 4

When the doorbell rang, Sherlock allowed himself some wishful thinking. He mused for a second, if it was pardonable enough to run to the door for the reason of the deep-rooted dependency on buns with poppy seeds (the machinations of one treacherous Afghanistan veteran), then the convention deemed irrelevant, and five seconds later, he was downstairs.  
"No need to pull a face," Lestrade grumbled as a sort of greeting . "Not happy to see me? I'm your personal entertainment provider."  
"Yes, yes, Inspector, new dose of anti-boredom?" sourly asked Sherlock, turning his back to the police.  
"Actually, an old one," Lestrade was not remotely embarrassed. "It is necessary to take a ride to the pool."  
The tall figure froze in mid-step.  
"If you want to admire the ruins, go to Stonehenge," Sherlock tossed over his shoulder. "I'm busy."  
"Holmes, this is not a request," coolly replied Inspector and added, as Sherlock was turning around with a come-on-and-make-me face,"It is an investigative experiment."  
"What the hell is there to investigate then the accused can only be present at the crime scene in the form of brain scraps in a plastic container?!"  
"There were also the snipers," the voice of Inspector was quiet and disgustingly understanding.  
"If I refuse, you'll set Anderson and his dimwit goons on me ?" Holmes resisted more on principle. He was already walking up to take his coat.  
"It would be nice if you were dressed like that last time," Lestrade called after him.  
"Suit is still in dry cleaning," snapped Sherlock.  
"Well, it was worth a try," Inspector grinned.

 

"Let's get over with this as quickly as possible," Sherlock stared gloomily at the gray London sky through the roof.  
Large pieces of debris have been removed, but the damage was too extensive.  
"It's like after the bombing," Lestrade muttered.  
"The striking observation. Shall we?"  
Inspector sighed and motioned for him to start.  
"So," Sherlock said in his impetuous manner, " I was standing right here, under the stands, hoping that this way I can prevent the possibility of an attack from behind, held a Webley-Scott in my hand and aimed it at the sound of the steps, when John came out of the booth ... John!!!"  
Sherlock froze.  
He almost heard how some very unwanted thoughts clattered like in his head like icicles.  
Watson smiled almost apologetically, the parka was the same beige, no, of course not the same, but similar...  
Sherlock rushed about the place.  
"Lestrade!!!" He barked at the top of his voice, but got only echo in response.  
John stared at him, unblinking.  
The rational part of Sherlock's brain understood clearly, that there was no threat, that there will be no more red spots on the chest, no explosions, but to see John so vulnerable again... it was absolutely, incredibly, frighteningly unbearable.  
And Sherlock gave up on the brain.  
If John Watson, M.D., Afghanistan veteran, had an inner voice, it would probably sound like Mycroft Holmes, the same all-knowing and self-satisfied snob. And John had no doubt, that this voice would certainly ask him: "What moment in your life, Doctor, do you think, has the first-class importance to you?" And John would have said to him, "Now." "And why, may I ask the honourable Doctor, are you standing there at the most important moment of your life silent and speechless, as Chinese guerrillas during the interrogation?" And John would not answer. He just would have told him (out of an old military habit) to get lost. Preferably somewhere as far as Afghanistan.  
Because if there was someone who could understand, how difficult it was for Watson to step out of the booth in the semi-darkness of the destroyed pool, no explosives under his jacket, but with a time bomb instead of his heart, it was he who now desperately tore John's clothes off. And John just smiled quietly, allowing to undress himself.  
"John," strong fingers dug into his sweater, " say something."  
John tried to swallow a lump of words in his throat .  
"Did I understand everything correctly?" How low and quiet that voice sounded .  
"Ahem," John cleared his throat. "You've understood correctly. Absolutely."  
John would not write in his blog about this.  
Because he didn't know how to write poems.  
And he didn't play violin, but in the darkness Sherlock trembled under his hand like a string.  
John diagnosed himself with amnesia. He cannot remember how it was for the first time, all those other first times with other people, were they real at all?  
On the expensive Sherlock's coat, among the ruins after indecently apocalyptic sex John suddenly asked:  
"And when you said that you don't like sex, you... what did you mean?"  
"What I'm not interested in banal copulation."  
"Oh." John stopped. "Our sex was a banal copulation?"  
"I would not qualify it as sex."  
"Oh." There was only just enough air in the lungs for this muffled cry.  
"Don't you understand?" Sherlock smiled sadly. "You are the only one who can burn my heart out."


End file.
